


A great or little thing

by blackkat



Series: For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-11-12 17:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18015008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Outtakes, missing scenes, and drabbles fromAnd the brave man with a sword.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tides are shifting among the Slytherins. Pansy, Blaise, and Theo are all caught in the current.

 “Well, _that’s_ going to be interesting,” Pansy says, watching with narrowed eyes as a large number of the senior Slytherins gravitate towards the newcomer. Quite a few of the younger students, too, though Pansy isn't sure she counts them quite as much; they're new, and they don’t know the House’s established patterns well. The older students, though—they know quite well how things usually lie.

Theo, seated in the armchair at a right angle to hers, pulls a face. “Or a mess,” is his verdict, full of sharp edges as he lurks behind his book.

Pansy stretches out one leg, not motivated enough to move more than that, and pokes him with a toe. “Draco's not going to _lose_ this sort of thing,” she says haughtily, and mostly manages to keep the uncertainty out of her voice.

Theo’s dark eyes flicker up to her, and he snorts. “You heard what happened on the train,” he retorts.

“ _Everyone_ heard what happened on the train,” Blaise says dryly, leaning on the back of Theo’s chair. Theo gives him a brief nod, more acknowledgment than he gives most of their housemates; respect for a neutral party, Pansy thinks, and it turns a little in her chest, maybe something like regret. There’s a spectrum, in the House, and it’s far clearer this year than it ever has been before. On one side are the children of Death Eaters who support their parents; on the other are those whose families were neutral in the last war. Of the latter, only Blaise has enough strength to his family name to be certain he’s safe from recruitment, so it’s natural that Theo, with his hatred of everything his father stands for, would gravitate towards Blaise.

Pansy can't remember if they were friends before this. She isn't entirely sure knowing would matter, but it irks her like a sore tooth. Irks her like uncertainty, all too common in the middle of Hogwarts, so far from her family.

“Do you know anything about his family?” Theo asks, and Pansy looks up, but the question isn't directed at her. Theo is still looking at Blaise, who’s frowning faintly.

“Not directly,” he says, careful of his words. “There's a Silvius family in Modena that’s ancient, but they keep to themselves.”

This Silvius doesn’t seem to be keeping to himself, Pansy thinks, casting another look at the boy. He’s pretty, and she wants to know how he keeps his hair so perfect even in the faint damp of the Slytherin common rooms. He doesn’t particularly look Italian, but then, Pansy’s image of an Italian tends to default to Blaise.

“Dangerous?” she asks, though she makes it light, almost a joke even though it’s anything but. They don’t know anything about Silvius’s views, don’t know his stance on anything except for Draco, and Pansy doesn’t like it. Hogwarts is usually easy, safe. Here she doesn’t have to think too hard about anything but the work.

That’s been different this year. It’s _all_ been different this year.

“Well, he’s not handing out capes and masks, or offering up a branding iron,” Blaise says, languid but pointed, and it takes effort for Pansy not to flinch. She shoots him a look, but he ignores it as he straightens, eyes on the tall figure of Astoria as she cuts through the crowd around Silvius like an eagle through a flock of sparrows. One dark brow tips up, and he says thoughtfully, “Well, that’s interesting.”

Pansy exchanges looks with Theo, glad to see she’s not the only one feeling mildly perturbed by that tone.

“Aren’t you Draco's friend, Blaise?” she demands pointedly, but the words almost crack in her mouth. _Don’t go,_ she wants to say instead. _Please, don’t go. If you stay with Draco, that means you haven’t picked a side_.

Blaise meets her gaze, and his eyes are steady, set. He holds her eyes for a long moment, then says, “I don’t know that Draco wants friends like me, Pansy.”

Friends in the middle ground. Friends who don’t believe what Draco does to the exclusion of all other things. Pansy twists her hair around her fingers, watching Blaise walk away, and it takes effort not to wrench at the strands. Draco's been…louder, lately. Sharper. She’s not sure she likes it.

She doesn’t like watching Blaise leave them, either.

There's a breath from the other chair, shuddering, quiet. Pansy’s head snaps up, and her eyes widen at the sight of Theo carefully, deliberately closing his book and getting to his feet.

“ _Theo_ ,” she says, almost an accusation, and it stings like betrayal.

Theo doesn’t look at her, ducks his head and grimaces. “Sorry, Pans,” he mutters, but he lifts his chin and follows Blaise into the knot of bodies around Silvius. As they approach, Silvius glances over at them, and just for a moment a genuine smile lights his face. There's nothing conniving about it, nothing calculating; for all the world it’s like he hasn’t even _noticed_ that Draco is seething on the other side of the room, Greg and Vincent on either side of him, his own group of friends and acquaintances getting smaller by the minute.

Pansy stares at Silvius, not able to help herself. He shifts easily, making room for Blaise and Theo on the couch beside him, and from what Pansy’s heard him say there’s nothing _but_ Slytherin to him, and yet—

And yet there's something subtle, something bright. A thread of warmth, of quiet, steady certainty to him, and Pansy didn’t realize she wanted that until it was right in front of her, clad in school robes and a quick, sly smile. But—

She glances over at Draco in the corner, feels her heart twist in her chest. Looks down at her lap, takes a breath, and doesn’t move.

Just because everyone else has deserted the middle ground doesn’t mean she’s going to.

Not—not quite yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna meets Roberta, who most certainly looks more like a Rowena to her.

Someone hid her books again, and Luna is going to be late for class.

She sighs a little, because she could really use a Nargle whispering hints in her ear right now. Professor Sprout isn't fond of people arriving late, and this is the second time since the start of classes barely a week ago. But her books can't be _that_ far away; she only turned her back for a moment.

“Lost something?” a voice asks over her shoulder, sudden enough to make Luna blink. There's dark hair hanging in front of her, and she looks at it for a moment, follows the line of it up to a lovely face with storm-blue eyes, and smiles. Blue eyes like bluebells in the evening, and a faint Scottish burr to the words—she’s noticed before.

“Oh where, tell me where has your heelin’ laddie gone?” she sings, because it’s a song her mother used to hum when she was particularly happy.

Dark brows wing up, and the girl smiles. “He's gone wi' streamin' banners where noble deeds are done, and it's oh in my heart that I wish him safely hame,” she sings in return, and it seems shaped to her voice, instead of just carrying the words like it does for Luna.

“I think I’d like to see a hame,” Luna tells the pretty girl. “Is it a home like any other?”

“Just a home in Scotland,” the girl returns, and she folds down, uncaring of her stockings, to kneel in the grass in front of the bushes with Luna. Smiling, she holds out a hand, fingernails as red as rubies in the morning light, and says, “I'm Roberta. It’s nice to meet you.”

Luna looks at her hand for a moment, then smiles back and slips her own into it. “You don’t much look like a Roberta,” she comments. “It’s a rather dull name, isn't it? And you're not all that dull, I think.”

Roberta hums, tilts her head like she’s considering it instead of flaring up into offense. “I don’t think any name is particularly dull,” she counters, “unless the person who wears it is. Have you met many dull people named Roberta, then?”

“I suppose I have,” Luna agrees. “At least one.”

“Well, I'm a Roberta who isn't dull,” Roberta says briskly, though not like she’s annoyed with Luna. Luna’s familiar with that kind of tone, after all. “Perhaps I can change your impression of the name.”

“It would be very nice of you to try, for the sake of all the other Robertas,” Luna says. “But I'm still not quite sure it suits you as it should.”

That makes Roberta laugh, and she presses a finger to her lips, eyes bright with mirth as she winks at Luna once. “A secret between us,” she says, leaning in, and her long hair is like a curtain to hide the passing secret in the air between them. “I don’t think it suits me as it should, either.”

Luna smiles, content with that. “I hope you find a better name, then. It must be uncomfortable, having one that doesn’t fit right. Like pinchy shoes, maybe?”

“Or a too-small coat,” Roberta agrees. “With buttons all askew.”

“Silver buttons?” Luna asks, delighted by the metaphor. “Or are they brass?”

Roberta considers for a moment. “Silver,” she decides finally. “With the undersides polished and the top sides left dull.”

Luna laughs, because she loves the image. “I'm Luna,” she offers in return, and a name is as good an image as any, isn't it? “Luna Lovegood.”

Roberta smiles, easy and thoughtful, and tips her head. “Luna Lovegood,” she says, like she’s turning it over in her mouth. “A name that fits you quite nicely, I think.”

“I think so, too.” Luna tugs at her bracelet of old shoelaces braided together, and says, “My mother picked it for me.”

“A fine gift,” Roberta says decisively, as if it can't be anything but true, and sits back on her heels. “So what is it you're trying to find out here, Luna?”

Luna hesitates, but—Roberta has already been far kinder than anyone who’s _not_ going to be kind would bother to act. “My books,” she says simply. “They were hidden.”

Roberta frowns, and for a moment the storm her eyes promises seems to crackle around her body, stirring her robes. But then it’s gone, and Roberta sighs like the other girls are a headache even though she doesn’t know about them. “How…petty,” she says, and wrinkles her nose.

It makes her look cute, Luna thinks. Like an offended cat. She laughs a little, and says, “It’s gotten better, you know?”

“Still,” Roberta says briskly, and draws her wand. Elm, Luna thinks, studying it. Her mother had an elm-wood wand; she knows the color well. “ _Better_ is not yet _good_. But perhaps I can help.” A sharp flick of her wand has the bushes several paces from them rustling, and all at once Luna’s textbooks and bag fling themselves up into the air. Luna catches them gratefully, gathering them to her chest, and looks up at Roberta.

“Thank you,” she says, and smiles. “I hope the Nargles don’t bother you for this.”

“I don’t think they will,” Roberta says, smiling back, and she leans in, taps her wand firmly against Luna’s books. “To make thieves speak in limericks,” she confides when Luna tips her head, and that smirk is full of mischief. “If the Nargles are too busy to nag at them, I shall.”

Luna rises to her feet, offers Roberta a hand. “You're certainly not a dull Roberta,” she says, and Roberta’s hand is firm, strong in her own. It feels like a doing sort of hand.

Roberta laughs, and just for a moment she’s someone else, Luna thinks. Someone older, maybe, but her eyes are still the same dark blue, and her wand is still deeply golden elm. “I try my best not to be dull,” she says. “It’s rather tiresome, isn't it?”

“Dreadfully,” Luna agrees, and lets Roberta walk her to class.

She still doesn’t look entirely like a Roberta. Luna hopes she finds a name that fits her someday soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva has suspicions. And possibly feelings.

“Dueling in the hallway. _Really_ ,” Minerva says, exasperated, and sinks lower into her chair in the teachers break room.

Rolanda laughs at her from behind her tea. “I don’t know what you were expecting, Minerva,” she answers, leaning over to refill Minerva’s cup. “Roanoke’s mother, what was her wording? _Magically adept but in need of socialization_. How anyone thought that would end peacefully is beyond me.”

Minerva grimaces. Albus took great pleasure in passing on that exact phrasing, and she’d been mildly concerned at the time that she’d be getting four wild creatures dumped in her lap. She’s not entirely sure what she got was all that much better.

On the other side of the table, Filius chuckles, marking off another paper and setting it atop the pile on the table. “It seems to me,” he says cheerfully, “that we should consider starting up the Dueling Club again. Positive outlets, and less chance of disaster.”

“Don’t _encourage_ them,” Minerva says reprovingly, though she can't help but remember Gideon Griffiths in the moment she rounded the corner, the complete ease with which he moved. Roberta Roanoke as well, but—

She’s seen trained Aurors who don’t move like Griffiths when intercepting a spell. She’s seen Dueling champions who aren’t as quick with their spellwork. And to combine that in a fifteen-year-old boy is…almost unsettling.

At the very least it’s not malicious. None of them are, and she’s unspeakably glad of it. When Albus mentioned the four had all been schooled by their parents, she’d worried that they’d stick together to the point of excluding the rest of the school, and while they certainly seem _fond_ of each other, they fit in well in their Houses, too. Almost _suspiciously_ well; Minerva’s been braced for some kind of growing pains, and hasn’t yet encountered any. Well, the dueling in hallways aside.

“Scholars,” she mutters to herself, then looks at Filius, who tends to keep up with academic journals outside of his teaching purview far better than Minerva manages. “Have _you_ ever heard of these parents of theirs?”

Filius hums, attention still mostly on his grading. “I've heard of Lady Roanoke, for certain,” he says, and chuckles. “Mostly for her scathing rebuttals of other research, I’ll admit. Hers is a quick and biting wit. Historical journals love her. And Silvius’s mother—she had an article about the architecture of Hogwarts and the original spellwork placed on the staircases. Crediting Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, I believe, which is unusual—most research credits Ravenclaw alone.”

That’s as good a reference as any, Minerva supposes. She taps her fingers against the handle of her teacup as she frowns faintly, considering. Roanoke’s mother was the one who arrived to enroll all four students, with notarized letters from the other three’s parents, too caught up in their research to visit, and from what Minerva has seen, that’s rather in line with what she would have expected. The four are certainly independent, and rather headstrong.

“Anything from the other two?” Rolanda asks, though it’s more mildly curious than anything as she leans back in her chair. “They're all scholars, then?”

“Well-studied historians,” Filius agrees cheerfully. “I've encountered the names of all four at one point or another, though they usually publish as a group. Their children likely know more about Hogwarts and the Founders than most professors who have taught here.”

Minerva has seen Griffiths’s scores on his first few tests, and she’s not surprised to hear his parents are so studied. He certainly seems to have a complete grasp of the material, and it makes her more confident about the transfer in the middle of fifth year, with hardly any time to prepare for OWLs.  

“Hopefully,” Minerva says, and sets her cup down as she pushes to her feet, “they won't use that knowledge to cause mischief, as _some_ students have in the past.”

Rolanda laughs, flicking her wand to dismiss Minerva’s cup. “You were as fond of Black, Potter, Pettigrew, and Lupin as anyone,” she says knowingly, and when Minerva narrows her eyes at her, she just smirks, hawk-yellow eyes wholly amused. “You know it’s true, Minnie.”

Minerva sniffs. “I know no such thing,” she says, though they both know it’s a lie. “And the most recent Potter is _more_ than enough trouble already, thank you.”

“He’s a brilliant flier,” Rolanda says, a little wistfully. “You think he’ll go professional?”

Minerva has her own suspicions as to what path Potter will take, though she’s hardly about to share them around. “I think career discussions aren’t until later this year,” she says briskly, and glances at the clock above the fireplace. “If you’ll excuse me, Rolanda, Filius.”

Rolanda waves her off, and Filius casts her a distracted smile as she turns and heads for the door. There's little to do before the start of the next class, but she’s never approved of teachers being late to their own classes, and it’s best to arrive early. And—

Well. That’s another factor to consider, isn't it? Potter's usual mischief meeting whatever mischief Griffiths and his friends might bring is a sure recipe for a headache, and Minerva isn't looking forward to it. And Griffiths _will_ bring mischief, she’s certain of it. She knows the look all too well, after her years teaching, and though Griffiths is already proving a brilliant student, she has no doubt he’ll leave himself plenty of time for trouble as well.

The shifting stairs leave her on a windowed landing just below the third floor corridor, and while she waits for them to move back into alignment, Minerva indulges in a moment of observation, looking down on the courtyard below. A few classes have already finished, and there are a few students making their way through in groups. Minerva smiles, just a little, at a gaggle of first years, tiny and all but vibrating with excitement, then lets her eyes slide away.

Bright red hair draws her attention, and she raises a brow as Griffiths and Potter drift into the courtyard, heads bent together. Griffiths is gesturing, his smile quick and sharp, and Minerva isn't quite certain she trusts it. Isn't quite certain she trusts _him_ , for all that he’s a student under her care. There's a Dark Lord back in the world, and he’s threatened Hogwarts from inside more than once now. If he thought to send a student Potter's age, to order him to get close—

Potter has good instincts, but he’s still a teenager. Still chafing against those trying to keep him safe. Minerva understands it, as much as she disproves of the notion; Potter knows very well that Voldemort has marked him as his enemy, and what that means. But—he can't _know_ , not the way the adults around him do. They all lived through the last war, after all. Potter lost his parents, but with the stakes as they are, they're all at risk of losing a whole _world_.

She watches, still and steady, as Potter comes to a halt, making Griffiths turn to look. There's an expression on Potter's face that’s full of light, determination like a flame, with an edge of the same fierceness Minerva has seen so many times already. Frown growing, she tracks his gaze to Griffiths, who smiles, and—

It’s…an odd echo of Potter's expression. Something equally bright, full of warmth. If it’s a trick, it’s a very good one, Minerva thinks, and folds her arms over her chest, not quite at ease with the idea. Possible, of course, that it’s everything it seems, and Potter has simply made another friend.

Minerva thinks of the duel Griffiths and Roanoke had in the hall, though. Thinks of the way Griffiths moved, the effortless spells that flickered from his wand, nothing that Minerva could easily name even though neither of them had to speak a single spell. Perhaps it’s simply that their parents are scholars, and widely studied, but there's always another option. Always a darker possibility.

As she watches, Potter shakes his head fiercely, and Griffiths laughs like he’s been surprised, open and startled, and that expression—that’s real, Minerva suspects. It makes Potter grin, too, and even though he’s never been one for casual touches, he leans in when Griffiths reaches out, lets the redheaded boy lean right up against his side as they turn and keep walking, and neither shifts away. Curious, Minerva reflects, and shakes herself briskly, straightening her robes.

She’ll keep an eye on Griffiths. And on Potter, too, though that’s hardly something unusual in her habits. She likes to know when trouble’s brewing, and the last four years, Potter has always been in the thick of it.

This year, it feels rather like twin storms are brewing, and Minerva won't be caught unaware when they collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Rowena pretend to be four different historical scholars just so she can critique false articles and try to steer academics towards the truth? Why yes, yes she does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Godric and Rowena get into trouble, and then help each other out of it.

“Bloody _land disputes,_ really?” Rowena hisses.

Godric pulls her down before a misaimed arrow can catch her in the head, ducking down behind an overturned cart. A flick of his wand puts out the smoldering beginnings of a fire in the hay, and he grimaces, fully in agreement.

“Look at it this way,” he offers. “At least Salazar and Helga didn’t pick this trip.”

Rowena blows out a disgusted breath, but Godric can read her agreement in the wry slant of her mouth. “Salazar would never let us hear the end of it,” she mutters. “ _If_ they didn’t take one look at him and decide he’d make a good little hostage, pretty lordling that he is.”

Godric rolls his eyes, because this is an argument he’s heard Rowena and Salazar have _many_ times over the twenty years they’ve known each other. “Ravenclaw, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you're a noble lady. _Allegedly_.”

“From _Alba_ ,” Rowena retorts. “I’d like to see these prissy bastards haul themselves north of the River Forth and tell the whole Ravenclaw family they want to bargain for my release. They’d be laughed out of the kingdom.”

Minus their heads, probably; Godric has met Rowena’s family, and they're certainly intelligent and knowledgeable and regal, but they're also fiercely territorial. An excess of Pictish blood, Godric assumes. Not that that’s a bad thing. Just the opposite, in his opinion.

“Only because you’d already have rescued yourself,” he says with a laugh, and leans up, checking the area. There's a fierce clash going on just out of sight, and an archer atop one of the larger houses is making himself a nuisance, but he can't see them right now and that’s good enough for Godric.

“Of course I would have,” Rowena says, as if she’s offended by the _existence_ of a thought that says she wouldn’t. She leans down, checking under the cart, and then tosses her wand up, catches it in the flat of her palm, and narrows her eyes. The length of elm wood shudders once, starts spinning, and Rowena frowns. “Blast,” she mutters. “We’re not close enough for a definite location.”

Godric was rather afraid of that. He grimaces, then settles back, unslinging the shield from his back and fitting it over his arm. “What are your chances of taking out that archer?” he asks.

Rowena shoots him a look. “Provided I can _find_ him—” Her eyes widen, and she breaks off. “Godric. _No_.”

“We need to sneak around behind the fight,” Godric points out reasonably, even as he draws his sword. “The archer is trying to _keep_ people from sneaking around behind the fight. If we can get past him, we can find the girl.”

“You're not using yourself as _bait_ ,” Rowena snaps. “An arrow to the eye will kill you just as fast as a curse could, Godric, I _know_ you're aware of this.”

“Then you’d best find him fast,” Godric retorts, and there are booted steps approaching, a shout. Rowena grabs for her bow, hands flying to string it in a rush, but Godric is already moving. He rolls out from behind the cart, comes up with his shield leading, and catches the first man in the face. The soldier goes reeling back, and Godric turns to meet the second one, catches a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, and twists back to avoid an arrow that slams into the wood of the cart.

“Duck!” Rowena calls, and Godric drops, sweeping his opponent’s legs out from under him as a jet of red light soars over his head. He hisses an oath, rolling back to his feet, and is just in time to watch the curse splatter across a shield of green light that Rowena throws up.

“I thought Salazar said there were no other witches here!” he says, offended, and blocks the thrust of the first soldier with his sword, sweeps it sideways, and slams his shield into the man’s face. He goes down, and Godric spins to face the second as he advances, spear ready.

“He did!” Rowena rises, arrow nocked on her bow, mouth set. She doesn’t aim for the advancing soldier, but higher, and when the man lunges for her with a shout, Godric intercepts him. Gritting his teeth, he twists around the spear that jabs for his knees, deflects a second blow with the flat of his blade, and—

The bowstring sings, and an arrow thuds into the dirt yards away. “Missed,” Rowena bites out, and Godric catches another blow on his shield, kicks out hard, and knocks the enemy back.

“Him or you?” Godric laughs, and sweeps around another stab, throws himself forward, and hits the spearman hard with all the weight of his body. They go down hard, but Godric is braced for it, bounces the man’s head off a stone and twists back to his feet, raising his shield defensively.

“Both.” Rowena sounds sour about it, but she slides out from behind the cart, another arrow ready on the string. Her mouth is set, eyes warry, and she says, “What are the odds we aren’t the only ones here for the girl?”

Godric snorts. “High, apparently,” he says, wavers for a moment, and then slings his shield over his back again in favor of drawing his wand. If there are people here trying to grab a child, an untrained witch, there's far less of a need for subtlety. Even if Godric _was_ worried about being noticed, the risk to the girl is worth more than that; Godric knows all too well just how many people are willing to snatch up a potential witch or wizard in the name of conscripting them, regardless of the child’s opinion on the matter.

When he looks up, Rowena is watching him, expression grim. “Where there’s one—” she starts.

“There’s more,” Godric agrees, and catches a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. He throws up a deflection, letting a sizzling white spell rebound from Rowena, and as he drops it she rises, the arrow leaping from her bow. In the shadows of a house, a figure jerks back, but too late; her arrow strikes true, and there's a cry. The wizard falls back, and a sharp _pop_ announces his disappearance.

“Hah,” Rowena says, though the line of her mouth is still entirely unamused. She lowers her bow, reaching for another arrow, and sets it on the string in a practiced motion, scanning the upper levels of the houses around them.

“Nice shot,” Godric says, and flicks his wand, calling up an image of the girl Helga found and holding it in his mind. Sparks of red light spin around the tip of his wand, then shoot off to the east, right behind the bulk of the fighting, and disappear into the distance.

Rowena watches them go, tilting her head critically. “We need a locator spell with a longer range and more accuracy,” she says disgustedly. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“You’d best get on that, then, Ravenclaw,” Godric tells her, and laughs at the dirty look it gets him.

“Just for that, you can go first,” Rowena tells him sweetly. “That’s right under the archer, if my guess is right.”

Godric had that suspicion, too. He rolls his eyes at her, but takes the lead regardless, and says over his shoulder, “I'm going to find you the ugliest helmet in Mercia, and make you wear it all the way home.”

“Safety is worth any sacrifice of fashion,” Rowena says, breezy. “Thank you so much for thinking of my welfare, Godric.”

There's a ringing of metal, a clatter of hooves on hard-packed earth. A soldier on horseback rounds the corner, at the same time as a jet of green light almost takes Godric’s head off. He flings up a shield, even as he raises his sword, and there’s half an instant of frozen surprise on four parts. Then the knight shakes himself, lifts his sword, and charges right at Godric.

“Morgana’s _tits_ ,” Rowena curses, and an arrow sails past Godric’s head as he dodges the horse’s striking hooves, knocks the sword-strike wide. Of course the archer’s decided to get in on the fun as well, Godric thinks, and spares just enough attention to cast a hex at the witch just entering the fight. She blocks it, turns Rowena’s next arrow into a burst of flower petals, and sends the rocks under Godric’s feet whirling out from under him. He hits the ground hard, only just manages to roll away from the horse’s feet in time, and scrambles up, ducking the sword swinging for his head.

With a sound of outrage, Rowena drops her bow and grabs for her wand, puts three curses in the air in quick succession and spins, her shield charm blooming just in time to deflect another spate of arrows. She snarls, and Godric would laugh if he wasn’t so busy dodging spells and swordstrokes both.

“I,” Rowena hisses, venomous as a basilisk, “am going to _string Salazar up by his heels_. He couldn’t have scryed a little further than the girl?”

Godric grunts, thrusts up. The knight spins his horse to avoid the strike, and Godric takes advantage of the opening, sliding back and jabbing hard with his wand. A burst of light catches the horse, and with a snapping pop, it’s gone. The knight drops with a cry, saddle suddenly suspended over empty air, and a goat scrambles out from underneath him, bleating with alarm.

“Duck!” Rowena cries, and Godric throws himself to the side, rolls under an arrow and comes up with a spell on his tongue. The jet of black light hits the witch’s shield, just as there’s a cry. The archer goes tumbling from the roof of a house, and Godric spins, meeting the knight as he rises and leaving the witch to Rowena.

“I’ll help,” he calls back, and Rowena makes a sound to vicious satisfaction, though whether at the thought of dangling Salazar over a staircase or the way her curse cracks a witch’s shield, Godric can't tell. He doesn’t have time to ask, either; the knight lunges, and Godric has just enough time to twist their blades together, wrenching the sword out of the man’s hand, and stab forward. His blade slides through a gap in leather armor, and with a choked cry the knight crumples, going still.

Godric flicks the blood off his blade, turning to look for Rowena, and finds her casting another locator spell, wand spinning in her palm. This time it goes suddenly still, tip pointing south, and she lifts her head, eyeing the indicated house. “Finally,” she says, and Godric doesn’t linger on the tight line of her lips, the stiff set of her shoulders. He just nods, stepping over the knight’s body and heading for the door as he sheaths his sword.

“Her name is Trea?” he asks, and when Rowena nods he raises his voice, calls, “Trea? Trea, are you hurt? We’re here to take you somewhere safe.”

There's a long, long moment of silence, and then the door creaks open. Wide blue eyes look up at Godric, and the little girl, no more than eight, says, “Are you the people my friend said were like me?”

Salazar’s sending must have told her they were coming, and Godric is grateful for it, even if it would have been nice to get a warning of just what they were walking into. “I'm Godric,” he says, crouching down to give her a smile. “And this is my friend Rowena. And yes, my dear.” He raises a hand, concentrates, and lets a swirl of red and gold sparks spin together into a glowing ball of colored glass. Offering it to Trea, he smiles and says, “We were hoping we could take you somewhere with other children who can do the same things you can.”

Trea cups the ball in her hands, eyes wide with wonder, and then nods vigorously. “Yes!” she says delightedly. “Yes, please, I want to go!”

“Then we’ll go,” Rowena says lightly, and offers Trea her hand. “Off to Hogwarts, and a grand adventure!”

Trea takes her hand without hesitation. “My father is off with the lord,” she says, “and my sister’s in the fields. Can I come back and see them?”

“Of course,” Godric promises. “We’ll bring you back in the spring, all right?” It’s not even a lie; Salazar wouldn’t have marked the girl as in need of immediate removal if she wasn’t in danger from her family and the town around her, but this doesn’t have to be a permanent relocation. Just until she can control herself without being thought a changeling child or stoned to death for being a witch. In a few months or a year, Godric or Rowena will bring her back with stories of finding her with a band of raiders, and an offer of schooling. Most non-magical parents are too grateful for such things to look at the explanation too closely. Cruel, maybe, but her fate if she stayed would be crueler, and Godric is ruthless enough that he doesn’t care in the face of that.

“Are we going now?” Trea asks, and her eyes flicker to the bodies in the street.

Godric steps in between her and them. “We are indeed,” he says, and offers her his free hand. “Are you ready?”

She grips his fingers, giving him a bright smile, and Godric gets the distinct feeling that she’s going to be one of his. “Yes,” she says determinedly.

“On three, then,” Rowena says kindly, and Godric takes her free hand, feels the flicker of her magic rising and matches it easily. “This will feel funny, but it will take us somewhere special, all right?”

“Like a fairy hill?” Trea asks with interest.

“Very similar, but for people like us,” Godric confirms, and meets Rowena’s eyes. “All right. One, and two, and—”

“ _Three_ ,” Rowena finishes, and pulls them into a spin. There's a lurch of the world around them twisting, reforming, and then coming back into focus with a sharp snap. They're in the shadow of Hogwarts, the castle soaring high above them, and Trea looks up with wide eyes.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says breathlessly.

Godric laughs, squeezes her hand gently. “Welcome home, Trea,” he offers, and when she throws herself at him, he catches her with a laugh, hugging her to his side. So easy to forget the blood on his sword in the face of this, and maybe it marks as Godric the mercenary he was born, but—

 _It’s worth it_ , he thinks, and knows he’ll never stop believing it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Godric, Salazar, departures, and hair-braiding.

The first time Falcon Company calls Godric away to war, they've just laid the cornerstones of Hogwarts.

A raven brings the news with the morning light, dark against the sunrise, and Godric walks out to meet it on the hilltop that they’ve chosen for their castle. Salazar watches him go, unable to stop his fingers curling just a little tighter around his mug as he watches Godric’s figure grow smaller, trudging towards the peak. Falcon Company’s been quiet lately, Winnifred keeping to her barony to the southeast, and Salazar has been entirely content with that. Sharing Godric, even with family, has never been something he does well.

“Cheer up, Salazar,” Rowena says, though she’s slipped a bookmark into her book and lowered it, a rare sight indeed in the mornings. “They can't have sent anything but the best of news with an omen of death.”

“Don’t blame the bird for what it’s carrying,” Helga says patiently from where she’s tucked against Rowena’s side, though her eyes stay on her knitting as she works through a tricky section. “Ravens live longer than owls, so some people do prefer them.”

Rowena pulls a face that says very clearly what she thinks of that, but she doesn’t turn away, keeps her eyes on Godric’s figure, and Salazar can't look away either. The wild mane of Godric’s hair catches the dawn light, burning like flame, and he’s a tall, straight figure, implacable and steady for all that he’s only twenty-one years this August. The raven perches on his shoulder, letting him untie the message scroll around its leg, and then takes off without waiting for a response. Godric raises his head, watching it go, and stays there for a long, long moment before he turns and starts back down to their fire.

Salazar can't read his face as he approaches. It’s startling to realize, because Godric is always open, always wears his heart where the three of them can see it, and they’ve been out here for so long that Salazar rather forgot Godric isn't always like that. Failed to remember just how carefully Godric hides himself from other people, even if it’s behind walls of humor and companionship. At least he knows better than to resort to those now; instead of a mask of happiness, they get blankness, distant and cold around the edges.

“Godric?” Helga asks, and her needles finally come to a stop as she looks up. “Is everything all right?”

Godric looks between the three of them for a moment, torn, and then runs a hand through his long hair. “Winnie wants me in Cornwall as soon as I can reach it. They’ve a job near Dublin.”

Salazar frowns faintly, setting his tea aside. “There's been plenty of unrest there,” he allows, because he still occasionally receives news from home, regardless of his family’s feelings about his departure. “A squabble over territory?”

Godric shakes his head. He’s still standing, not even attempting to retake his seat beside Salazar, with the roll of parchment clutched in his hand. “Alaric didn’t say. I need—I’ll take the day to pack, and then ask one of the thestrals to take me first thing tomorrow morning.”

His heart like stone, Salazar curls his fingers into the log beneath him. This is normal, he tells himself. Even as a child, Godric used to leave frequently, though his visits to Salazar stretched longer and longer each time he came back. The fact that he hasn’t been called away before this is almost surprising, honestly; Godric is a force of nature, a fierce soldier, a brilliant tactician. It’s no wonder Winnifred wants him at her side.

Salazar doesn’t want him to leave, though. They’ve settled themselves here, chosen this place to bring their dream into reality, and without Godric, there's little point. Indignation rises in Salazar’s throat, something dark and almost angry, but he swallows it down, won't let himself snap at Godric for something that’s Winnifred’s doing. Godric still has oaths to Falcon Company that he has to uphold, older than the ones made between them, and he can't forsake them so easily.

He doesn’t bother asking how long Godric will be gone; there's no use, in something like this. Rises to his feet instead, pulling his robes a little tighter around himself, and reaches for Godric’s empty hand. “One day, then?” he asks.

Godric’s smile is wan and wry, but his callused fingers grip Salazar’s tightly in return. “I should leave now, by all rights,” he says, but turns, casting a look at the four great stones they’ve sunk into the earth, already carved with runes. “But…one day, yes. I can spare that much time.”

It means one more day and night with Godric, so Salazar is hardly about to complain. He inclines his head, then sinks back down to the log, keeping his grip on Godric’s hand and pulling him along. Without letting go, he leans over to reclaim his tea, and says, “If we lay the foundations for the main hall this morning, we can let the magics settle for the rest of the day.”

There's a pause, careful, and then Godric lets out a sound like a laugh, squeezing Salazar’s fingers. “Just say you want a break and be done with it, bastard,” he says fondly, and Salazar takes a pointed sip of his tea.

“Ward-building theory supports the idea,” he retorts.

Rowena makes a sound of annoyance, though she still hasn’t reopened her book. “ _Certain circles_ of ward-building theory support it,” she corrects. “The rest call it a lot of hogwash and Doxie dung.”

Helga laughs softly, setting her knitting aside and straightening up. “You’ll need a few days of supplies, won't you?” she asks Godric.

Godric nods. “Just enough for me to get to Winnifred,” he says. “A day or two, but no more.”

With a thoughtful sound, Helga tugs at the charm around her neck. “There should be some fish almost done smoking,” she says. “I can speed up the process a bit. And we have some bread and cheese left. Salazar and I were going to make a trip into the town at some point to get more, so we can simply do that sooner, and you can take the extra.” Apparently catching Godric opening his mouth, she levels a look at him that’s entirely pointed. “Don’t argue, Godric, you're taking it.”

Because he has some sense, Godric raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right,” he huffs, but when Salazar presses a hand to the curve of his spine, he glances up at him and smiles. “Don’t look so worried, Sal, I’ll have all of Falcon Company at my back.”

 _That’s hardly reassuring_ , Salazar doesn’t say, because it’s a private concern he hasn’t been able to broach. Just—paranoia, and too much concern, and a bit of protectiveness despite knowing that Godric is the most formidable fighter he’s ever seen. Godric adores his aunt, loves her with a ferocity that’s leonine and boundless, and Salazar has never found a way to put his fears into words when they might implicate her.

Across the fire, Rowena catches his eye, and her mouth is a thin line of red in her fair face. Salazar has never touched on the matter with her, either, but it’s both reassuring and unsettling to know that he isn't alone in his worries.

“Your ability to find trouble is beyond the ability of any mortal man to corral, Godric,” he says dryly, and pretends that his fingers don’t curl into Godric’s tunic like that small touch can keep him here.

Godric laughs, as if Salazar is in any way joking. “I think a hundred-odd witches and wizards can manage,” he says, and lets his head fall to rest on Salazar’s shoulder. “I've managed plenty of times before.”

Salazar hums, more than a little unimpressed. “Yes, well, this time you don’t have Rowena to scream and throw her bow at the opposing side,” he says dryly.

“That was _once_ ,” Rowena says, outraged. “And I was bloody out of arrows, what was I supposed to do? _Faint_?”

Delicately, Salazar picks his way around the minefield of that particular conversational turn. “You’ve been spending more time here than with Winnifred, of late. Forgive me my worry that it’s left you less familiar with their forces.”

Godric snorts, though the slant of his smile is wry. “Once you're Falcon Company, you're Falcon Company until you die,” he says.

 _But you were born into it instead of choosing it,_ Salazar almost says. _Nothing about that is fair or just_. But those are Helga’s words; Salazar knows very well that nothing in their lives has been just. Not until they came together, and even then only what they’ve been able to _make_ just with blood and sweat and magic.

“There will be no dying, now or any time in the near future,” Rowena says briskly, and sets her book aside, nudging Helga over and rising to her feet. “If we’re to set the cornerstones soon, I’d best take another look at those runes. Just to be certain.”

Helga laughs, offering Rowena her hands and letting the other woman pull her to her feet as well. “And I’ll see to those fish,” she agrees, and casts Godric a smile as she links arms with Rowena. “If any of your clothes need mending, Godric, set them in my basket, and I’ll get to them before supper.”

“Bless you, Helga,” Godric says with a grin. “I think I could put my fist through that hole in my good cloak, and spells tend not to stick to it.”

“That’s rather the point of a cloak with protective spells,” Rowena says, tart, but she brushes a hand over Godric’s head as she passes and adds, “And for Morgana’s sake, find a brush. Your hair’s a rat’s nest.”

“And yours is a page-boy’s cut!” Godric calls after her, but if Rowena hears the slight to her newly-shorn hair, she doesn’t turn and show it. Then again, she’s been as smug as a snake the past few weeks since she took a knife to her braid, so Salazar supposes that she wouldn’t. every time one of them mentions it, she simply gets smugger.

Still, she has a point. Salazar reaches up, sliding his fingers through the wild strands of Godric’s hair, frizzy and flyaway, and hums. Drags the pad of his thumb over Godric’s nape, just for the faint shiver it gets him, and then says softly, “Will you cut it?” After all, Godric has always been adamant that loose hair is a danger in a fight, and when he was younger he’d trim it short every time Winnifred summoned him home. And this promises to be bigger than the skirmishes Godric used to fight in, more dangerous than being hired to guard the heir of the Slytherin family; Godric will want every advantage.

But, instead of reaching for his knife, Godric tips his head, tugging on a red lock. It’s long, falling partway down his chest, and soft between Salazar’s fingers. “No,” Godric says at length. “I think this time I’ll braid it. I rather like it long, for now.”

Dublin has always known Norsemen of many stripes, and Salazar has seen them on their way to fight, the intricate braids they wear. Even knows how to recreate them, since he watched his aunt put them in her husband’s hair. She’d married a Norseman, and before Salazar abandoned his birthright to go galivanting across Alba with two noble-born witches and a sellsword, she used to be the scandalous one in the family.

The act of watching serves Salazar well, though. Leaning forward, he presses a soft kiss to the crown of Godric’s head and murmurs, “May I braid it for you?”

Godric’s breath catches, and he tilts his head back to look up at Salazar. He’s beautiful, and Salazar can't resist the urge to brush his fingers across Godric’s cheeks, down the plains of his face. Well-loved, well-remembered, no matter how many seasons they're apart, and Salazar fixes Godric’s face in his mind, imprints it in his thoughts so he’ll always be able to call up this exact moment. Godric’s face, the silk of his hair, the green of his eyes, the _expression_ in them. Like Salazar is everything that matters and ever _could_ matter to him, and even though Salazar knows it isn't the truth he leans in and kisses Godric anyway.

“I’ll find my comb,” he murmurs, and Godric smiles up at him, warm and fond.

“You’d best,” he agrees, and Salazar steals one more kiss before he goes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Godric's family history isn't quite as straightforward as he makes it out to be. Old men telling stories doesn't necessarily make them true, but it doesn't mean they're all false, either.

Salazar first meets Godric’s cousin Alaric five years after meeting Godric himself.

The meeting comes with Godric’s return to Slytherin lands, a triumphant homecoming for all Salazar knows Dublin will never truly be Godric’s home. He can pretend, sometimes, however, and it makes something turn over in his chest, warm and bright, to see a company of ragged mercenaries ride through the innermost gate of the fort. The white mare Godric was riding when he left is absent, and for a moment Salazar’s stomach turns, but then crimson catches the sunlight and burns, and it’s as if the world resettles.

Letting out a short, sharp breath, Salazar steadies himself on the edge of a doorway, watching the soldiers from Falcon Company greet the guardsmen. They seem in good spirits despite the roughness of their appearance, but Salazar only has eyes for Godric, for his grin, for the sound of his laughter. He swings down from his horse, shaking out his flyaway hair, and Salazar’s breath knots a little in his lungs. It’s been eight months, but somehow it feels like eight decades have passed since the last time he faced Godric, and the memory Salazar has been clinging to all this time is a pale, worn thing in comparison to the reality of him.

As Salazar goes to step forward, though, an older man calls to Godric, who turns with a smile. A _real_ smile, swift and bright, and he moves immediately to the side of the other man, stocky and strong with his brown hair mostly faded to steely grey. When the man slides down from his mount, Godric braces him, an arm under the older man’s elbow, and the man smiles at him, pats his shoulder with a familial sort of warmth. Godric helps him stand for a moment before one of the others reaches them, a fair-haired woman with scars across her face. She takes over, waving Godric away, and Godric steps back.

Taking that as an opening, Salazar pushes away from the main house, descending the slope. It’s his duty to greet the newcomers, especially since Falcon Company is one of several reasons his family has managed to keep their lands despite the encroaching Norsemen, but it’s not duty that drives Salazar’s steps.

“Godric,” he calls, and like he was waiting for the sound Godric spins, expression brightening. He grins, crossing the space between them in several long bounds, and laughs as he bowls right into Salazar, almost knocking him off his feet.

“Salazar!” he says delightedly, and Salazar wraps his arms around him, soaking in the warmth of his body, the weight of him, real and no longer a wistful dream kept close during separation.

“I see you haven’t lost an ounce of your ridiculousness,” Salazar says, though he doesn’t mean a word of it. Carding a hand through Godric’s tangled hair, he smiles a little as he tugs out a handful of holly leaves, and when Godric pulls back to scowl at him, he holds them up as evidence.

Rolling his eyes, Godric snatches them out of his fingertips. “I took a shortcut through the wood to catch up with the company,” he says defensively. “There were low-hanging branches.”

“Of course,” Salazar says, dry, but he doesn’t pull away. Keeps his arm hooked through Godric’s, instead, and lets Godric lead him down towards the rest of the company. Then he pauses, glancing back up the road, and frowns.

“Godric,” he says slowly, “which wood?” Because there’s only one significant one close by, but—it’s a wood with a thousand tales attached to it, and a history of lone riders never reemerging once they enter.

Godric shoots him a confused glance, but he halts as well, turning to face Salazar. “Isn’t there only one?” he asks, raising a brow. “Alaric took the road, but I’d been held up in the town and I didn’t want him to get here without me.” A flicker of a grin, bright enough even now to burn away the shadows in Salazar’s mind, and he reaches out, touching Salazar’s hand. His fingers stay, a point of contact that burns, and Salazar has to work to keep his breath from catching. “You worry sometimes, Salazar.”

“About you? Always,” Salazar says, automatic, and Godric laughs as if it’s anything close to a joke. Before he can say anything, though, there’s a call from where a Falcon Company woman is wrestling with a string of packhorses, and Godric flashes Salazar a rueful smile and then is gone, hurrying to help her.

For a moment, Salazar simply concentrates on breathing. His family has legends stretching back _centuries_ , all based on the idea that the wood isn’t to be entered. It’s a defense, just as much as the fens to the west, but not one they established. With practice, with knowledge of the hidden paths and sunken roads, it’s possible to ride a horse at full gallop across the bogs and never stop, but there are no such safety measures for the wood. It looms at the edge of the horizon, dark and merciless, and Salazar feels a shiver run down his spine as he casts a glance at it.

Godric walked through that wood. Godric passed through the trees where so many men and women have vanished entirely, but there don’t seem to be any ill effects. Salazar recognizes the bracers studded with iron around Godric’s forearms, and surely there’s no one alive who could mimic that exact shade of red in his hair. His greeting to Salazar, too, was one they’ve shared a hundred times over the five years of their acquaintance, and Godric still feels the same. He even has the same wand, in its holster on his belt, and the polished applewood shines in the afternoon light.

It’s just—unnerving, really. Salazar has personally known people who thought to brave the wood and were taken for their hubris. It’s hardly the only place within a day’s ride that has the same dangers attached, either. There are hills to the south that don’t take kindly to trespassers, and beyond the fens are fields where fairy rings appear every night when the moon is clear.

There are steps behind Salazar, just a little heavier than he’s used to for one of Falcon Company. “The boy’s been riding through fairy woods since he first learned to steer a horse,” a voice says, and Salazar turns to face the grey-haired man, who’s watching him with an odd slant to his smile. Older by a margin than most of the mercenary company, but without as many scars as Salazar would have expected, and he feels like he should know the soldier but they’ve certainly never met.

“Godric?” he asks, a little wary, though he draws himself up straight and doesn’t let it show.

The old man inclines his head, precise and not an inch further than he needs to. “Godric,” he agrees, and the sweep of his eyes looks Salazar over again, weighing him. A pause, careful, and then he says, “Your maternal grandmother was _Dubgaill_.”

It takes effort not to frown, but Salazar keeps his composure. “She was,” he says. “She came to Áth Cliath, and rode beside Horm to face King Rhodri the Great.”

The faintest touch of a smile brings out lines in the man’s face, and it’s almost startling to suddenly catch a shadow of Godric’s expressions in his face, so very familiar. “A brave woman,” he allows, and then says, “And your grandfather traveled with Áed mac Neíll. A strange match, by any measure.”

Salazar has heard this story countless times, as well, though it at least ends more happily than tales of the fairy wood. “They saw each other across the battlefield,” he says. “He was overseeing their wounded, and she was retrieving hers. It was love the moment their eyes met.”

The old man chuckles, and when he moves his steps are deliberate in a way that speaks of not wanting to put a foot wrong. “Aye, I’ve heard that as well. And Donnchadh Donn favors your family now, for your potions and your charms. A fine fate.”

“The High King’s favor is no little thing, and we are grateful,” Salazar demurs, inclining his head, but he keeps his eyes on the soldier. “Forgive me, I don’t believe I know you.”

The man doesn’t look surprised, just amused. “Alaric,” he says. “Falcon Company’s second, and cousin to the little runt.”

Salazar raises a sardonic eyebrow, letting his gaze drift back to Godric. At eighteen, fighting-fit and forever moving, Godric is anything but a runt, if he ever was.

“A pleasure to meet you at last,” he says, though, and means it. Godric rarely has little to say about this cousin in particular that isn't all but worshipful. “I am Salazar.”

Alaric chuckles. “The boy hasn’t shut his mouth about you in five years,” he says. “I feel I know you well.” Another sharp look, assessing and a little too clever, and he says, “Don’t worry for Godric in a fairy wood. There are far better things to spend your concern on.”

“I would worry about anyone walking into those woods,” Salazar says, perhaps a little stiffly, because this is Godric’s only family he’s speaking to, and Godric’s tales of him aside, Salazar has very little idea just what he chooses to tell Falcon Company.

With a shake of his head, Alaric looks away. “You don’t hear me,” he says, though it’s patient instead of annoyed. “Godric has nothing to fear from any wood or hill, regardless of its tales.”

Nothing to fear? Salazar frowns deeply, because even the bravest warrior is nothing in a place where the worlds meet. Anyone can be brought down by trickery, and surely a man like Godric, with a bright heart and a lovely face and all the strength of a storm in his magic, would be a prize any of the _aes sídhe_ would covet. Even beyond their hatred of trespassers, Godric is a fair thing, a noble-hearted soldier; surely they would steal him away to their hills the moment he passed into their woods.

Before he can ask again, though, there’s a call, bright and laughing. Salazar looks, and has to stop, fingers curling against his palms. The struggling horses have gone quiet, tangled around Godric with their heads pressed close, and Godric has his hands tangled in forelocks and braided manes, entirely surrounded. The woman who was handling them before is the one laughing, and Godric shoots her an aggravated look as she shoos two more horses towards him. There’s a moment of jostling, surprisingly amiable, between the horses, and then a big bay shoves forward, knocking Godric clear off his feet. He goes down with a yelp, but before Salazar can even take a single step forward, alarm surging in his chest, they stop moving. The bay lips at Godric’s hair, and, laughing, he lifts a hand to fend it off, but it’s joined by another, and then a third.

Godric’s joy is infectious, even from a distance, and he’s so _bright_. Regardless of how he sees himself, regardless of that thread of ruthlessness to him, here like this he’s happy. Salazar smiles too, just faintly, and eases back.

“His mother had hair that same shade,” Alaric says unexpectedly, and when Salazar glances over, he’s watching Godric as well. There’s something soft in his face. “She and Winifred—I’ve never seen two souls closer.” His pale eyes flicker over, meet Salazar’s and hold. “Winifred was riding across the moors alone, when she was just a child, and she met a girl on a grassy hill, playing a flute. Sisters from that moment, like your grandparents’ connection. But—Boadicea was a wild thing, and never quite what Winnifred was. Even after she had her son.”

There’s a weight to the words, a meaning, and Salazar is more than clever enough to catch it. A girl from the moors, found on a fairy hill, who never became fully tamed even if she settled into a human life. A child, a son, who never need fear a fairy hill, even in strange lands.

Godric, with his strange talent for magic, instinctive in a way that drives Rowena spare, and Salazar as well at times. Godric with his equally strange closeness to all animals, magical and mundane alike. Godric with holly leaves in his hair and eyes like a cat, always restless, always moving, and he’s human, he is, but—

His mother wasn’t, Salazar thinks, and leaves Alaric behind, heading down the hill to reach the herd around Godric. A hand on a rump, a carefully applied elbow, and though the horses aren’t overly pleased they still part for him.

“Of course you start rolling around in the dirt the moment I take my eyes off you,” Salazar says dryly, and offers Godric a hand. “Isn't that coating of dust thick enough already?”

Godric laughs, but takes it, clasping Salazar’s wrist and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “They're happy to finally be standing still,” he defends, as if animals don’t gravitate towards him naturally, instinctively. Salazar sympathizes with them, truly. “And besides, I knew it would offend you enough to drag you down off your hilltop.” He grins at Salazar, and it’s as if Salazar’s heart jars sideways in his chest, one sharp beat before it settles again.

Godric has nothing to fear from a fairy hill, he thinks, but it’s hardly comforting. Godric is already a wild, lovely thing, and Salazar has worried about him disappearing into the hills before, seeking adventure, never to return. Now he’ll look at every fairy mound and darkened wood as if it’s an enemy, ready to tempt Godric away to a life his mother left once. It’s possible. It’s more likely, even, than a man like Godric contenting himself with simple things.

“I'm glad you came back,” he says, unable to help himself, and lifts Godric’s hand, pressing the back of it to his cheek and closing his eyes.

A moment of startled silence, and then a breath of amusement. One callused hand comes up to cup Salazar’s other cheek, and gently, so gently, Godric says, “Always, Salazar. Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll return to.”

Salazar opens his eyes, meeting Godric’s, and the promise of the words reflects in his face, clear and honest.

Salazar breathes in, breathes out. He chooses to believe him.


End file.
